


The Safest Road To Hell

by O4amuse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Anal Sex, Comedy, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Implied Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, M/M, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 04:26:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5234027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/O4amuse/pseuds/O4amuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re always saving me. You killed the yellow eyed demon whilst I was jammed up against a tree. You shot Jake before he could stab me. You haul me out of burning buildings and away from shapeshifters. Don’t you think it’s time I learned not to rely on you? This Groundhog thing is to teach us both that you can’t - shouldn’t - always be the one to fix it.”</p><p>It's Tuesday - repeatedly - and Dean can't keep Sam from dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Gentle Slope

**Author's Note:**

> The safest road to hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts. ~ CS Lewis

After fifty Tuesdays, Dean was feeling punch-drunk. His entire purpose in life was to take care of Sammy - he identified as Protector Of Sam. But Sam kept dying. Yester-today he'd cuffed his brother to the bed, intent on not letting him move. The stupid moose had wriggled so much that the bed collapsed, sending a spring through his femoral artery.

So this time, when he woke to Sam's cheerful 'morning' as he came in from his run, Dean punched the radio off and flopped back with his eyes shut.

  "Dude, I thought you loved Asia,” Sam said.

  "Not any more."

  "Well, up and at ' em. I want breakfast."

  "Not hungry."

  There was an incredulous pause. "Are you ill?"

  Dean flopped a forearm over his eyes. "I'm taking today off."

  "What about Dexter Hasselback?"

  "He ain't getting any deader. You, on the other hand... "

  "What?"

  "If you step left, you'll trip over the light flex and electrocute yourself. If you step backwards you'll slip and crack your head open. If you step forward you'll catch a sleeve on the door handle and bring the whole damn wall down. I can't win, and I can't watch. Not any more."

  "Dean, are you okay?" Sam's voice was rich with worry.

  “I’m tired. Tired and useless.”

  “You’re not useless.”

  “I can’t keep you alive. It doesn’t matter how hard I try. If I can’t do that, what use am I?”

Dean could feel his throat closing, and he rolled away from Sam to bury his face into the pillow. He hadn’t cried since the second Tuesday, concealing the never-healing hole in his heart beneath anger. But there was nowhere for the anger to go. Nothing to punch, shoot, stab. He felt drained to the bone. 

  The bed dipped behind him as Sam perched on the edge. “What’s going on? You seemed fine yesterday.”

  “No, I was fine on Monday.” Dean summoned camouflaging grumpiness with an effort.

  “Yeah, that was yesterday.”

  “Yesterday was Tuesday. The day before that was Tuesday, and the day before that, and the day before that. I’m stuck in Groundhog Day, without the benefit of Andie MacDowell, and you keep dying, and I’m done, man. I’m just done.”

  “Is this a wind-up? I thought we agreed no more prank wars.”

  “Do I look like I’m laughing?” Dean pulled the pillow over his head. “Just… try to stay alive for as long as possible, okay? Sometimes I think I’m making it worse.”

  “You’re serious,” Sam said thoughtfully.

  “As a heart attack. Which, by the way, you’ve had. Don’t put your fingers in wall sockets, Sammy, how many times I gotta tell you?”

  “Apparently I keep forgetting.”

  “Not funny.”

  Sam paused. “No, I guess not.” His hand squeezed Dean’s shoulder, warm and strong. “We’ll figure it out.”

  “So you keep saying,” Dean mumbled. He could smell Sam’s sweat, earthy and sharp-edged. He burrowed deeper into the sheets.

  “I’m going to have a shower, then we can grab some breakfast and talk this through.” 

  “Don’t drop the soap,” Dean called after him. “I mean that literally.”

The sound of water hissed into the room. Sam had left the door open again. Dean wished he wouldn’t do that. It was too tempting to look through. He mostly had a handle on this thing - this blood-deep, smothering need - but he’d never claimed to be a saint. Cuffing Sam to the bed yesterday had, in retrospect, been a bad idea and not just because of the inevitable fatality. Seeing his brother stretched out and held down like that… Dean grunted and thought determinedly about zombies.

  “Hey, Dean?” Sam called from the bathroom. “You said this was Groundhog Day, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did they get out of the loop in the film?”

  “Uh…” Dean had to think pretty hard. He’d only watched it because some girl had wanted to. Or was it Sam, when he was little? “Bill Murray falls for the hot chick.”

  “Develops a balanced relationship with her.” Sam’s voice was so dry Dean could practically hear the eye-rolling taking place next door.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “The point is, breaking the cycle depended on a close relationship with someone else, right?”

  “Right.”

  The water shut off and Sam emerged in a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped around his hips. “What if I’m your Andie MacDowell?”

  Dean sat up and blinked as the ability to think temporarily abandoned him. Acres of smooth skin, glistening and tan against the white of the towel. Just out of reach. He drew in a deep breath and got a grip. Metaphorically. “Come again?”

  “You said it’s focused on me dying. Maybe this is about me learning to look after myself.”

  “Go back to the part where you’re a girl? Coz, apart from the hair, I don’t get it.”

  Sam pulled a clean pair of trousers out of his bag. “You’re always saving me. You killed the yellow eyed demon whilst I was jammed up against a tree. You shot Jake before he could stab me. You haul me out of burning buildings and away from shapeshifters. Don’t you think it’s time I stopped relying on you? This Groundhog thing is to teach us both that you can’t - shouldn’t have to - always be the one to fix it.”

  “Bullshit.” Dean swung his feet to the ground, abruptly angry enough to get out of bed. “That’s bullshit, Sam, and you know it. You’ve hauled my ass out of the fire enough times. We take care of each other. Whatever this is, whatever’s doing it, they ain’t here to help us grow as people.”

  Sam looked at him with a small smile. “Got you up, though.”

  “Screw you.”

  “Breakfast first.”


	2. Soft Underfoot

Dean had never found it difficult to persuade Sam about things, but now he was a master. By the time they’d sat down, his brother had fully bought into the idea that there really was some kind of time-loop in place.

  “I guess the question is what has the power to do that,” Sam said, as the server came over. “Hi, I’ll have the -”

  “Short stack and coffee for him, just coffee for me,” Dean said.

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “I might have wanted the special.”

  “You always have the short stack, Sammy. Fifty days in a row.”

  “You’ve been watching me die for nearly two months?” Sam looked a little stricken. “No wonder you’re not hungry.”

  “Yeah,” Dean said shortly. “What were you saying about power?”

  “If it’s a spell, it’s a powerful one. We’re not talking book-club witches, here. I never heard of a demon who could do this, either. The best the big boys can manage is time travel.”

  “Okay, not a demon. What else?”

  “Not much. I guess a genie could make it seem like you were stuck on repeat, but why would it want to? And we haven’t had a sniff of a genie round here.”

  Dean shook his head. “Last time a genie jumped me, I could tell. I kept getting flashes of reality punching through. This feels like it’s real all the time.” Too much of the time.

  “Real but temporary,” Sam said thoughtfully. “No matter what you do, it’s undone.”

  “What’s the point of that? Where’s the pay-off?”

  “Freedom.” Sam smiled at the waitress as she deposited a plate of pancakes and two cups of coffee on the table.

  “What?” Dean demanded. “Yeah, thanks, sweetheart, that’s all. Sammy, what the hell does ‘freedom’ mean?”

  His brother shrugged and dug into his breakfast. “You can do anything you like in the sure knowledge the world is gonna reset. No consequences. It’s the perfect playground for experimentation.”

  “So why involve us?”

  “Maybe the spell, or whatever, needs some kind of focal point. We got unlucky.”

  Dean stirred sugar into his coffee, focusing intently on the black liquid to keep his voice steady. “You die. Every day. Then we start again. That’s… it’s not just unlucky, it’s personal. Something’s got a real hard-on for you, kiddo.”

  “Or you,” Sam said with his mouthful. “Think about it. I don’t remember what happens, and mostly it sounds like it’s pretty quick. You’re the one who…” He stopped abruptly as Dean’s face changed, and swallowed. “How’re you holding up, anyway?”

  “I’m fine. I’m peachy.”

  “Dean.”

  “How d’you think? It’s not exactly a laugh a minute, watching you kick the bucket on a daily basis. I’m supposed to look out for you but all I can do is watch as you die in my arms, over and over, and the last thing you always say? When you have a chance to say anything. ‘Dean.’ Like I failed you, I wasn’t fast enough or smart enough or goddamn desperate enough to stop it. To save you.” He dragged in a shaky breath and looked out of the window, squinting hard. “I can’t save you, Sammy.”

  Warm fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist. Sam was reaching across the table, his heart in his eyes. “You do,” he said firmly. “You will. You just gotta hold onto the fact that this isn’t permanent, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Dean swallowed his shakiness down with coffee. “So… you said ‘experimentation’. That sounds unpleasant.”

  “Potentially. But it’d have to be with materials or people who are already here. No time for running errands.”

  “No freaky breeding programmes or growing people in vats.”

  “Right. Have you noticed anything that might fit the bill?”

  Dean shrugged. “It’s your usual podunk town, full of drunks and small-timers. No criminal masterminds that I’ve noticed. But I ain’t really been looking, to be honest.”

  “Okay, why don’t you have a scout around. I’ll head back to the motel and do some research. See if I can find a spell that fits. How much trouble can I get in, with books and wifi?”

  Dean glared at him. “I’ve seen a papercut kill you, Sam. But sure, it’s worth a shot. Not like any of my ideas have worked so far.”

Dean insisted on walking him back to the motel, and thoroughly testing the structural integrity of the desk before letting him sit down. Sam eventually nagged him into leaving and he stood in the motel carpark with a blank mind. He knew the town by heart. Where could a super-witch possibly be hiding? He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eyes, fighting back the bone-heavy weariness. He’d meant to take this round off.

Sam had said something else in the diner. No consequences. Dean bit his lip for a moment then shrugged. Fuck it, he needed a break.

 

* * *

 

  “Hiya, Sammy.”

  “Dean, where the hell are you?”

  “Jail. This is my official phone call.”

  “What?!”

  “I borrowed the sheriff’s car. Always wanted to play the blues ‘n’ twos.”

  “Are you insane? Hang on, I’m on my waaaagh!”

  “Sam? Sam!”


	3. Without Sudden Turnings

As always, Dean woke when Sam opened the door with a cheerful “Morning!” and the radio alarm clicked onto Asia. As always, the first thing he thought was ‘fuck, it’s Tuesday again’. But on the 52nd Tuesday, there was a ray of light in the black hole of his despair.

_No consequences. Thank you, Sammy._

Because if he was honest himself - which he tried not to be, most of the time - there was only one thing that he really wanted to do. One thing in his whole monster-filled, walking nightmare of a life that terrified him into paralysis. He didn’t do chick flick moments for a reason: in case chipping a hole in the dam meant the whole craptastic lake came flooding out and washed away the only person that had ever really mattered.

So this time, when Sam sat on the bed behind him and squeezed his shoulder, he didn’t bury his head under the pillow.

  “We’ll figure it out,” his little brother said, and Dean’s nostrils flared at the scent of runner’s sweat. He let the barriers drop, feeling them reverberate through his entire body. The dust of half a lifetime clogged his throat, made his voice rough and needy.

  “Sam…”

  Sam went still, deer-in-headlights still, his pupils blowing wide. He swallowed hard, his fingers trembling against Dean’s skin. “Yeah?”

  “Sam.” Dean sat upright, running a hand up Sam’s chest and round the back of his neck. One thumb sought out the hammering pulse under his jaw. “Sammy.”

He didn’t run. It was enough encouragement for Dean to draw Sam’s head down, to breathe in the salt and musk. He pressed a soft kiss to his brother’s dry lips, then rested their foreheads together. His blood was a river in spate, hot and roaring in his ears. Sam’s hand slid slowly from shoulder to wrist.

  “What’re you doing?” he whispered shakily.

  “Experimenting.”

  “... what?”

Dean smoothed his thumb over Sam’s collarbone and pulled him into another kiss. He flicked teasingly across Sam’s lips until his brother opened to him with a faint moan. Their tongues met, danced, building the heat and need in the intimate caverns of their mouths. All thoughts of Tuesdays evaporated as Dean’s whole world became the moist want of Sam’s breath. His eyes were dark, his skin was pulsing shivers, his ears were filled with heavy breaths. Everything was Sam, Sam, Sam kissing him back, god, wanting him back, like he never thought possible and dreamed of anyway. His hands slid to Sam’s back, heat rolling off that broad expanse of silk-covered iron, filling his palms with the only thing that was always real, gorging himself on touch.

Sam pulled away, slamming the back of a hand to his mouth, leaving Dean’s space cold and empty.

  “I can’t do this,” he said shakily, standing up.

  “Please...”

Dean grabbed for his wrist. Sam jerked back, caught his foot on a trailing corner of the sheets, and fell his length, flailing. His head bounced off the corner of the desk with a sickening crunch. He collapsed to the carpet, eyes unblinking, red spreading swiftly. Dean stared.

  “Oh, come on! Seriously?”

A flicker of darkness, then Asia started playing again.


	4. Without Milestones

Dean wasn't just good at rolling with the punch, he turned it into a freaking art form. Plus he was stubborn - some (Sam) had even called him obsessive - when he set his mind to something. And, third in the trifecta, he knew now that Sam wanted it.

If his brother had pulled away in disgust, punched him, or otherwise freaked out, that would've been it. Question answered and, thanks to Groundhog Tuesday, no harm no foul. Back to the same old repression he'd been practicing for years.

But Sam had kissed him back.

That knowledge, that taste, was branded into his mouth. It was on his tongue when he woke up, in his pulse as Sam opened the door, under his palms that gripped sheets instead of skin. But he didn't lunge forward like every muscle wanted to. Sam would probably have caught a shoulder in the solar plexus and suffered fatally fast internal bleeding, or something. So Dean stayed still, a tiger in long grass, and waited.

He spent Sam's shower-time thinking. What kind of lover was his brother? The sensitive, gentle type or the alpha male? Would gentle touches or bold directness get him on board quicker? It could easily go either way, with Sammy. Still, Dean had the advantage of being able to try both. And, despite the reset, his blood was up. Among other things.

Sam had left the bathroom door open again. Dean wasn’t a saint.

He got out of bed and padded over as silently as he could. Sam was in the shower, his back to the door, sluicing water through his hair. The long length of his back gleamed wetly and Dean let himself look as much as he always wanted to. Sam was a gentle undulation of spine into ass into muscled thighs, all of it lean and silk-covered and Dean’s for the touching. He was already half-hard in his boxers, breathing fast. The last few steps to reach the shower door barely counted as a conscious decision.

Sam turned to reach for the shampoo and pulled an outraged face.

  “Dean! Ever heard of personal space? Stop perving and get out.”

  “Open the door.”

  “What?”

  “Open the door, Sam, or I will.” Dean stripped off his t-shirt and tossed it aside.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m going to fuck you,” Dean said calmly and dropped his boxers.

Sam’s mouth sagged open. His eyes slid downwards to Dean’s erection and he swallowed. Dean reached slowly for the shower door, giving his brother plenty of time to object. Silence.

_Okay, then._

There wasn’t a lot of manoeuvring space. Dean went for the direct approach, pushing Sam up against the tiles and running his hands over that water-smoothed skin. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Sam’s nape and nudged their hips together.

  “Christo,” Sam said on a gasp.

  Dean bit gently at his shoulder. “I’m not possessed.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Sam…” Dean slid his hand over the curve of his brother’s hip and down, groinwards. “Tell me you don’t want this.” He brushed his fingertips over the head of Sam’s erect cock and revelled in the full-body shudder.

  “I don’t… ah, I don’t…”

   Dean stopped abruptly and put as much space between them as the shower would allow. Nausea roiled in his stomach. “Fuck.”

  “Dean…” Sam turned round slowly, colour high.

  “I’m, I’m sorry. I thought-” Dean fumbled for the door.

  “Hey!” Sam raised a hand to reach for his shoulder, then pulled it back. “How did you think I’d react? It’s not like you’ve ever… I mean, come on, man.”

  “So you assumed I was a demon? Is that easier for you to accept than the thought that I-” Dean choked on the L-word. He might be embarrassed beyond measure, and grief-stricken, and hard to the point of pain, but he still had balls. That was part of the problem.

  “That you what?” Sam frowned, focusing hard. Then his pupils flooded and he drew in a shaky breath. He touched two fingers to Dean’s wrist. “I don’t want a lie, Dean.”

Heat ran up Dean’s arm like an electric current. He surged forwards, covering Sam’s body with his own. Another shaky breath but this time there was the shadow of a smile hiding at the corners of Sam’s mouth.

  “Does this feel like a lie to you?” Dean growled into his ear, grinding their hips together.

  “How long…?” Sam gasped.

  “Always, Sammy. It was always you.”

Sam gave a throaty groan, quickly cut off. He dropped his head, hiding his face in the curve of Dean’s neck, and his hands grasped Dean’s ass, hauling him closer. Dean ground against him again, sending lightning sparks shooting through his nervous system. Then he dropped to his knees, held Sam’s hips steady, and swallowed him down.

The taste of him, hot and clean and velvet-soft, filled Dean’s world. He flicked his tongue over the tip, revelling in the sharp tang of pre-come, before swirling in spirals down the length. Overhead, Sam moaned. Dean glanced up and froze as desire swept through him like a tidal wave. Sam’s head was tipped back, exposing the long line of his neck. His eyelashes were spiky with droplets and his parted lips gleamed. Muscles corded across his collarbone and down his beautiful arms. His fists were clenched into white knuckles against the tiles. Dean wrapped his hand around one wrist and brought it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the tender inside.

  “Let go,” he said and dammit, his voice was as shaky as Sam’s had been. “Just feel it.”

  Sam caught his bottom lip under his teeth and Dean’s throat locked up at the sight. Then he nodded. “It won’t take long.”

  Dean grinned. “That’s coz I’m awesome.”

Before Sam could dispute it, he reapplied his tongue to that gorgeous cock. Sam’s begging filled the cubicle, a waterfall of sound that brought Dean close to orgasm himself. He hung on to the shreds of control and took his brother as deep as he could. Sam gave a high, hoarse cry. Every muscle locked and then he was coming down Dean’s throat in thick pulses, pouring out his need and desire, a river of pleasure. Dean gagged, swallowed, focused on not blowing his own load until Sammy was finished.

Then Sam gave another all-over shudder. His legs trembled and suddenly gave out. Dean scrambled backwards with a surprised grunt but there was nowhere to go. Sam landed across his shins, wide-eyed and twitching. He drew in a rattle of breath… and didn’t breathe out again.

   Dean stared at him, dizzy and panting. He spun between grief, rage, or… “Did you come so hard you had a heart attack? Damn, I’m good.” Black humour. As a defence mechanism, it was hard to beat.

The shower vanished and the radio played Asia.


	5. Without Signposts

Coitus interruptus did nothing to improve Dean’s opinion of Tuesdays. He didn’t bother trying to explain to Sam, just followed grumpily along to the diner. He didn’t even order Sam’s breakfast for him, or his own. Sam gave him an odd look and ordered for them both, then went back to talking about the missing person case. He didn’t stop until the waitress returned with their food. Dean continued staring moodily out of the window.

  “Are you okay?” Sam asked at last. “There’s an untouched plate of bacon in front of you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Yeah, right. You’ve been monosyllabic all morning. What’s the matter?”

  “It’s nothing.” Dean gave an entirely humourless smile. “Just need to get laid.”

  Sam pulled a bitch-face. “So go get laid.”

  “The only girl in this place willing to get up close and personal quickly enough has a really, really vicious skin disease.”

  “Dude, how can you possibly -”

  “You don’t wanna know, Sammy. Not a second time.” Dean forced himself to make a move on the food. “So, what were you saying about this Huckleberry guy?”

  “Dexter Hasselback. I think we should check out the Mystery Spot. I called Bobby when I got up and he said-”

  “Sam, you’re a freaking genius.” Dean dropped his fork and pulled out his phone.

  “I am?”

  “I shoulda done this ages ago. Bobby, hey. What d’you know about time loops?”

  “Good morning to you too.” Bobby’s cantankerous voice was wonderfully reassuring.

  “Listen, I’m stuck in a time loop that only I’m remembering. Every time Sam dies, the day resets.”

  “What the hell, Dean?” Sam said, surprised and annoyed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I miss one time outta fifty and you give me grief for it.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Bobby, any ideas?”

  “Is this about that mystery spot Sam called me over?”

  “No, it’s got nothing to do with the Mystery Spot.”

  “You don’t know that,” Sam interrupted. “There’s things science can’t explain -”

  “Forget the damn Mystery Spot, okay? I already burned the place to the ground once. It ain’t that. Bobby, Sam said before that it might be a spell.”

  “I did?”

  “There’s spells could do it,” Bobby said slowly. “But you need a solar eclipse and we’re fresh out. Besides, messing with time’s fabric of the universe stuff. Beyond your average witch’s paygrade. You’re looking at deity-level juice.”

  “A god? Dammit, Bobby, how the hell do we stop a god from playing Time Out?”

  “Well, first you gotta figure out who the culprit is. That oughtta tell you how they’re doin’ it, and then what you need to do to stop ‘em.”

  “Awesome,” Dean said. “Any ideas?”

  “Chronos would be my starter for ten. Greek god of time.”

  “Chronos, got it. Thanks, Bobby.” Dean put down the phone and attacked his breakfast with renewed energy.

  Sam already had his laptop open. “Chronos… Serpentine body, with the head of a man, a bull and a lion. Or, for undercover work, an old man with a grey beard.”

  “I ain’t seen many three-headed snakes around here, but the place is lousy with old bearded guys. Can you narrow it down any?”

  “Well, I guess he’ll be the other person who remembers what’s going on and will behave differently from loop to loop.”

  “Okay, spot the difference. I can do that. How do we stop him?”

  “Um…” Sam frowned at his screen. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  “You got the rest of your life.”

  Sam glanced up at him. “Is this why you’re grumpy?”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “I can’t help if you don’t talk to me, Dean.”

  “I know.” Dean drained his coffee and sat back. “Most days I tell you. It just gets a little repetitive, y’know? And it don’t exactly feel great, explaining how you’re about to die and I can’t save you.”

  “You will,” Sam said firmly. “We’ll figure this out. Why don’t I go back to the room and do some research on Chronos, whilst you take a look around and see if you can spot him?”

  “Yeah, okay. Don’t stick your fingers in the electric sockets, and don’t stand up from the desk until I get back.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  Dean gave him a sideways look. “I know, Sammy. Just… bear with me. For today.”

  Sam blinked slowly and then closed his laptop. “Yeah, of course. I’ll be careful.”

Dean spent the morning wandering the streets, peering suspiciously at hirsute geriatrics. He got back to the motel mid-afternoon, with sore feet and a thumping headache. Sam looked up from the desk as he came in.

  “Hey, how’d it go? Any suspects?”

  “No.” Dean sat heavily down on the end of the bed and kicked off his shoes. “If we can’t narrow it down any, I’m gonna start stabbing pensioners.”

  “Good luck with that. Turns out Chronos can only be killed by a thousand-year-old olive branch carved by Vestal Virgins and dipped in blood.”

  Dean pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope. But get this, he’s powered by taking time from his followers. Only, no one follows him any more.”

  “So, what, you’re saying he ain’t got the mojo?”

  “Not without dropping bodies. I called Bobby and he hasn’t heard of anything that might fit the bill.”

  “So we’re back to square one.”

  “Not quite.” Sam brought his laptop over to the bed. “I got a hunch and read up on Dexter Hasselback. He writes about tourist attractions like the Mystery Spot, gets his kicks debunking them. I mean, he’s already put four places out of business. Here.” He passed the laptop to Dean.

  “‘ _The Hasselback Report_ ’… Truth warrior, seriously? More like a pompous schmuck, you ask me.”

  “Tell me about it. Anyway, I talked to the maid who cleaned his room. She said that, on the morning he went missing, she found a bunch of candy wrappers.”

  Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Sounds familiar, right?”

  “Sammy, you’re a genius.”

  “That’s twice today.” Sam grinned.

It was the grin that did it. In the full beam of Sammy’s pleasure he was helpless, no more able to resist than a magnet could pull away from North. He swayed forward and his lips brushed the corner of Sam’s mouth, light as a butterfly. Under that touch, Sam trembled into stillness, breath suspended. His eyes opened as Dean pulled away, all spreading pupil. Neither of them spoke.

Moving slowly, Dean took the laptop out of his hands and placed it safely on the desk. Then he stood over Sam, pushing gently into the space between his brother’s knees. Both hands smoothed that long hair back, fingers diving deep into the warm brown silk of it. Sam’s lids flickered shut again and he arched his neck, breathing out on the ghost of a moan. Dean cradled his skull and pressed a soft kiss on his forehead, his nose, his open mouth.

He tasted of peanuts and Sam, hot and sweet, all soft tongue and strong teeth. He drank Dean in like a man dying of thirst, making a noise in his throat like a purring cat. His palms slid up Dean’s thighs to settle at his hips, pulling them closer. Dean’s chest constricted with a tight ache until he felt like he couldn’t breathe, unless he was breathing Sam. Sam, who had always been as necessary to him as oxygen, his fuel and anchor and compass. His world, held between his rough hands.

He pushed gently at Sam’s shoulders and followed his brother down onto the bed, straddling his thighs. Sam pulled him close, spearing through Dean’s hair, and dived hungrily into another kiss. Dean’s awareness oscillated wildly between the demands of Sam’s tongue and the spike of shivering friction as their erections rubbed together. Sam moaned into his mouth and the sound made him dizzy. He tugged his shirts roughly over his head and flung them aside, then did the same to Sam’s. His thumbs found Sam’s nipples and teased in gentle circles until Sam was arching beneath him on a gasp. That increased the pressure on his crotch. Lava flooded his body and he growled, palms roaming lower over Sam’s flushing skin.

  “Sammy…” He nipped at Sam’s collarbone and felt fingers convulse into his shoulders. “I wanna… please, I need you, need to feel you, open you up and be surrounded by you…”

  “Oh god -” Sam choked. “God, yes.” He drew in a strangled breath and managed a coherent sentence. “There’s lube in the side pocket of my duffle.”

Dean kissed him hard, fierce victory and driving need, then rolled off to hunt for lube. When he turned back Sam had shucked off his jeans, and was on his hands and knees. The look he sent Dean over his shoulder was part sass, part needy uncertainty, pure Sam.

  “Like this?” he asked, making it both an invitation and a question. Dean didn’t answer but the predatory roar of desire must have shown on his face. Sammy lost the edge of hesitation and arched his spine. “Like this,” he said, and licked his lips.

Dean stripped, knelt behind him and ran both hands reverently over his ass. He slowly slid the tip of one finger down into the crack and over Sam’s hole. Sam purred, actually fucking purred, and Dean decided that was probably his favourite sound in the whole universe. His Sammy, writhing and purring under his touch, spilling heat and bliss. He followed the same path with his tongue and the purr rumbled towards bass, sending shivers down Sam’s chest and into Dean’s hands. Again, delving deeper, flicking over the tightly furled rim. Dean closed his eyes and focused all his concentration on the tip of his tongue as it swirled and dipped. Sam’s purrs became panting, and his thighs trembled.

  “Dean…”

  Dean pulled back and flipped the cap of the lube open. “Ready?”

  “Fuck, yes.”

Dean’s cock jerked, smearing pre-come against the back of Sam’s leg. He gritted his teeth and pulled back the looming orgasm. Then he slicked up his fingers and stroked over Sam’s hole again, massaging. One finger breached the ring of muscle and he paused to drag in a breath whilst Sam clenched and relaxed around it.

  “Christ, you’re tight.”

  “Less talk,” Sam said hoarsely, “more fucking.”

The word in Sam’s mouth did strange things to the base of Dean’s spine. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Sam’s coccyx and slid deep. Sam pushed back against it, spearing himself on Dean’s finger, demanding more. Dean held onto his own control with ragged determination and opened Sam up as gently as he could.

  “Dean.” A world of want in that one syllable. “Dean.”

  “Yeah, Sammy.”

Slowly, so slowly, Dean slid his cock into Sam’s tight heat. Fireworks were going off in his head but he kept the movement smooth and easy. Sam sank down onto his elbows with a ragged moan, opening up that final inch. Dean pulled him close and, for a moment, there was crystal clarity. He was balls-deep in his little brother, his whole body alight with desire, Sam’s wordless voice begging for more. There was so much love in him that he couldn’t breathe, filled to his foundations. This was home, this was where he belonged, as close to Sam, as much a part of him as it was possible to be. Why had he been afraid of this? It was what he was made for.

Sam thrust backward with a groan, and clarity was swept away in an avalanche of sensation. He thrust again, angling over Sam’s prostate. Something gave way - every muscle under his hands shuddered, tensed, then fell open as Sam came with Dean’s name on his tongue, a benediction offered up with his breath and his body and the fire at his core. Dean threw his head back and followed Sam over, blackness washing through him in waves of deep pulsing sensation as he came and came, pouring himself out, laying himself bare, words useless in the flood of love that roared through his veins and up out of his throat.

  “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy…”

They slumped forwards, Dean draped over Sam’s back, and their breathing slowly eased. Dean slid his hands under Sam’s chest and drifted in the calm, content just to cover and cradle the precious body close. Too soon, Sam stirred, inhaled in the way that meant he was about to say something serious.

  “No buzz-killing,” Dean murmured, eyes still shut.

  Sam huffed out a laugh. “Dude, you’re heavy. And I’m lying in the wet patch.”

  Dean gave a long-suffering sigh. “Fine.”

He pressed one last kiss to Sam’s nape, slid off and went to the bathroom. He held a cloth under the tap and looked at himself in the mirror. His reflection was the same as always, but he knew it to be a lie. He was different. Like the final piece of the jigsaw had been put in place, and now he knew what the picture was. This was the completed Dean Winchester. This version was unstoppable.

He cleaned himself up and headed back out, cloth in hand. In the two minutes he’d been gone, Sam had somehow managed to suffocate himself with a pillow.


	6. The Gradual Road

  “ _Heat of the moment!_ ”

  “Morning!” Sam said as he came in.

  Dean smiled sleepily at him, still caught in the trailing tendrils of happiness. “Heya, Sammy…”

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “Someone slept well. Come on, up and at ‘em. I want breakfast.”

Dean propped himself up on his elbows and felt a jolt of disconnection. He was not the same man he’d been yester-today, and he’d expected that. What he’d failed to take into account was that Sam would be unchanged. As far as his brother was concerned, they’d never had sex.

Except… it wasn’t just sex, was it? Dean had had plenty of sex in his time. Wham, bam, thank you very much ma’am. It didn’t shift his foundations. It didn’t change his reflection. The not-having of sex didn’t hollow him out with quiet grief.

His relationship with Sam had fundamentally altered; Sam’s relationship with him hadn’t.

He was going to fucking _crucify_ the Trickster.

  “Dude,” Sam said, sitting down at the desk to unlace his running shoes. “Have I got something on my face? Quit staring.”

  Dean kicked back the sheets and got up. “We still got stakes in the trunk?”

  “Who are you planning to stab?”

  “An asshole.”

  “Can you narrow it down?”

  “A massive asshole.”

Dean pulled on his jeans and boots, and went out to the Impala. Stakes, a silver knife, and - bonus - half a pack of M&Ms as bait. He slammed the trunk closed and leaned heavily on it, eyes screwed shut, allowing himself a moment of weakness.

Sam purring under his hands. Sam climaxing, breathing his name. Sam wanting him.

It would be so easy to lose himself in this endless procession of consequenceless days. To have Sam to himself, over and over, taking everything he’d ever wanted without fear of what came after. So easy to stop looking for a way out and blissfully eat lotus fruit.

And, bit by bit, it would kill him. Every morning he woke to the cheerful innocence in Sam’s eye would run another crack through his heart. Better one clean cut than dying by inches. It had to end today, and never have happened. What he felt for Sam was wrong, he’d always known that, and he’d given into temptation in this sandbox where it didn’t matter but he wouldn’t corrupt his brother when the slate couldn’t be wiped clean. He had the memory to keep for himself. It would be enough. Had to be enough.

  “Are you okay?”

  Sam’s voice, tinged with concern, pulled him back. The moose had a shoulder propped against the motel room doorway, arms folded. Dean straightened up aggressively, hands full of weapons and chocolate. “Fine.”

  “Really? Coz you woke up happier than I’ve seen you in a long time, and now there’s practically smoke coming out of your ears. It’s giving me whiplash.”

  “I said I’m fine.”

Dean pushed past him, back into the room, and dumped everything on the bed. Killing the Trickster needed a stake covered in blood from one of his victims. Dean opened his palm with the knife and wrapped it round the pointy end.

  “Dude, what the hell?” Sam came towards him, alarmed, and wrenched the stake out of Dean’s hand.

  “Give it back.”

  “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

  Dean eyed his brother. If he fought for it, Sam would probably end up full of terminal splinters. He sighed and began to wrap a handkerchief around the cut. “Cliff notes version - the Trickster’s trapped the town in a time loop, and you die every day to reset it.”

  “If we’re all stuck in a loop, how d’you know?”

  “Coz I remember. I’ve watched you die nearly sixty times in a row, Sam, and I remember all of ‘em. So, yeah, I’m a little pissed.”

  “The Trickster, huh?” Sam raised an eyebrow, and kept hold of the stake. “Didn’t we kill him already.”

  “Maybe there’s more than one. Or maybe he, I dunno, tricked us.”

  “Why are you so sure it’s him?”

  Dean shrugged. “Because you were.”

  “What if I was wrong?” Sam waggled the stake. “Time travel sounds more like Chronos, to me. This won’t help if he turns up. You need -”

  “A thousand year old olive branch carved by Vestal Virgins, yeah, I know. We ruled him out already. Look, I know this sounds crazy…”

  “Yeah, it does, even for us. This is -”

  “- ‘dingo ate my baby’ crazy. I _know_. But I trust that you, yesterday-you, got it right. So could you maybe trust that I’m trusting you?” Dean waved a hand. “That made sense in my head.”

A slow clap came from the door. Sam whirled to reveal the Trickster standing there, sunlight creating a halo around his blonde hair, with a wide grin on his face.

  “That was beautiful, Deano.”

  “How the fuck…”

  “You were using my name so often, I thought I’d better come make sure you didn’t wear it out.” The Trickster strolled casually in, nicked the packet of M&Ms from the end of the bed, and popped one in his mouth. “Good to see you, boys. Samsquatch, you’re looking great for Death’s most frequent flyer.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Dean said, fists clenched tight.

  “Are you kidding? You schmucks tried to kill me. Besides, it’s funny.”

  “Funny?”

  “Have you seen your face when he dies? And the whole incest thing, wow.”

  “What?” Sam said in a shocked voice.

  “Shut up,” Dean growled.

  “I gotta admit, I didn’t see that coming, but if I’d known I’d have done this a whole lot sooner.” The Trickster gave him a cocky grin. “You ever considered breaking into the porn industry? I could hook you up. For a share, obviously.”

  Dean took a step forward, raising a fist. “You wanna stop talking now.”

  “Or what? You’ll stab me?” The Trickster waved the M&M packet nonchalantly. “You tried that already. It didn’t take.”

  “Maybe I didn’t try hard enough.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you not being hard is the problem here.”

  “Dean,” Sam said quietly.

  Dean looked away from the Trickster and his brother’s expression was like a punch to the stomach. “Sam, I...”

  “Incest?”

Dean opened his mouth to lie, to lay the blame on the Trickster’s tongue, stab the douchebag, and get everything back to normal. Sam wouldn’t know any different. The memories would stay safely locked in his head, away from the light. Nothing had to change.

He couldn’t.

The feel of Sam’s skin under his palm, under his lips. The taste of him. The _sound_ of him, Christ, and what it did to Dean. He couldn’t lie that away. It would be like unmaking himself.

  “Dean?” Sam said again.

  “I…” He hunched his shoulders. “There were no consequences, and you said yes, and I… God, I’m sorry, Sam, I knew it was wrong and I wanted it anyway, more than breathing. I thought… I thought I could… and it wouldn’t matter because it wasn’t real. I’m sorry. Please. Christ, I’m so... I’m so sorry.”

  “Hey.” Sam’s hand on his shoulder, firm and pulling. Sam’s face, close enough to kiss, and his eyes were gentle. Beautiful. “You’re such an idiot sometimes. Only you could think something this important isn’t real just because I don’t remember it.”

  The breakdown in Dean’s heart paused. “What?”

  “I love you, you jerk. Always have, always will. Obviously.”

  “And cue the waltz music,” said the Trickster cheerfully. “Well, gang, this has been real touching for all of us but I think it’s about time we wrapped up.”

  “You ain’t going anywhere,” Dean snarled, spinning to turn his turbulent feelings against the enemy. “You’re done screwing with people.”

  “Dean, Dean, Dean.” The Trickster crumpled the M&M packet and tossed it aside. “You’re in this mess because of your itchy trigger finger. Haven’t you learned anything?”

  “If at first you don’t succeed,” Sam murmured into Dean’s ear.

The whisper of hot breath over his skin made Dean shiver. Something nudged his hip and the stake slid into his hand. He curled his fingers around it lovingly and his lips peeled back in a wolfish smile. Then he punched forwards, putting all his strength behind the blow. The Trickster’s smug expression melted into open-mouthed shock. He stared down at the branch embedded in his sternum.

  “Try, try again,” Dean said, and gave a sharp twist.

The Trickster fell backwards onto the bed with almost comic slowness. A dark patch began to seep across the covers. Dean stared down, a ringing sound in his ears. It was over. Was it over? He felt… he didn’t know. He’d all but forgotten how to think about tomorrow. Sam’s hand around his wrist brought him hurtling back to himself, anchoring awareness in that hot, possessive grip.

  “So,” his brother said, with a hint of a purr that sent Dean’s pulse from 0 to 60 in one syllable, “incest, huh?”

  “You don’t have to...”

He nearly bit through his tongue as Sam pressed against his back and ran the other hand firmly from hip to groin. Sam made a pleased sound that slipped into Dean’s veins like molten honey, and stroked up the rigid line of his cock. He bucked, head falling back against Sam’s shoulder. The fingers around his wrist gripped tighter, restraining him, and that sent an electric jolt of white-hot desire through his gut.

  “If you say I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to,” Sam said, his lips moving softly against Dean’s nape, “I won’t be answerable for my actions. I want this. I want to tie you down and fuck you into the mattress. I want to watch you fall apart in my hands. I want to hear you begging for my cock. I want you to make me beg for yours, to taste you. Christ, the ways I’ve wanted you…”

Dean was distantly aware that he was in very real danger of coming, wrapped in the velvet of Sam’s voice. But it was the hot, sweet, cracking pain in his chest that filled his consciousness. He was loved, wanted, by the only person who mattered. It was like looking at the sun - so bright and beautiful and incomprehensible that it hurt. Tears burned behind his lids. He was blind, blazing, breathless and utterly helpless.

Well, not _utterly_ helpless.

He shoved backwards and Sam shut up abruptly as his erection came into hard contact with Dean’s ass.

  “All of that,” Dean said in a voice as deep as tree roots. “But - and this is key, Sammy - not in the same room as a corpse.”


	7. To Hell

They moved towns first. Boner or no boner, Dean wasn’t risking Sam in Broward County for one more second. They were packed and out the door inside of ten minutes, the Trickster stashed in the Impala’s trunk.

  “Where to?” Sam said, stretching out in the passenger seat.

  Dean hesitated. “Depends on whether you meant… y’know, back there.”

  “I know you’re the king of denial,” Sam said with a lick of impatience in his voice, “but try and get this into your thick skull. There’s never been a moment of my adult life when I didn’t want you, in every way that matters. Okay?”

  “What about Jess?” Dean said, probing the bruise.

  “It’s possible to love more than one person.” Sam looked down at his hands. “I loved Jess. I really did. Who knows, maybe we could’ve made it work in the long term. But there was always a part of me that she couldn’t have. She knew I was trying to get over someone.”

  “Is that why you ran off to Stanford?”

  “I went because I wanted to learn, and a shot at a normal life. And yeah, a bit because I was lusting after my big brother and it was driving me crazy.” Sam raised an eyebrow at him. “So how about you put pedal to metal and find us another motel, so we can do something about that?”

  Dean grinned, and a warm current swirled through his chest. “Sammy, I get all tingly when you take control like that.”

  “I know.”

The dark undertone in Sam’s voice, and the way he looked across with slanted eyes, made Dean concentrate hard on turning the ignition key. The echo of electricity sparking from Sam’s forceful grip shortened his breath. If anyone asked, he would’ve fiercely denied having a submissive bone in his body. But the thought of Sammy taking charge, dominating… fuck, that was hot.

They’d passed another motel forty kilometres outside of town on the way in. Dean drove there in a little under fifteen minutes, in silence. He focused on the road, trying not to be distracted by thinking. Wrapping the Impala around a tree would put a serious crimp in his plans for the rest of the day. Plans that he’d been fantasizing about for… well, since before Sammy was legal and the less said about that the better. Thing was, there’s a world of difference between fantasy and reality. The scenarios he’d jerked off to in a thousand different shower stalls didn’t necessarily translate into the real world. The Sam of his imagination was flexible like a slinkie, and had a fucking filthy mouth. His brother was a different person, with plans of his own, and that was both infinitely more desirable and simultaneously kinda terrifying.

He pulled into the motel carpark and killed the engine. That’s when he realised that he was breathing fast and his hands were a little shaky. Sam gave him a strange look, gentle and amused.

  “Dude, I thought you’d already done this. I’m the one who should be freaking out.”

  “Yeah, you should be,” Dean grated. “I’m sick, Sam. I’m the last person you should-”

  A huge hand grabbed his jaw and pulled him round. “You’re not sick,” Sam said, leaning close with intense eyes. “Or, if you are, so am I. No one else could understand us, and no one else gets to judge.”

  “I’m supposed to take care of you.”

  Sam smiled, filling Dean’s space with warmth. “So take care of me.”

He leaned in and pressed a firm kiss against Dean’s mouth. Dean unfurled, opening up to drink in his heat, his want. Sam stroked his tongue over Dean’s, tasting, claiming, and Dean could feel the vibrations of a purr shudder through him. Oh god, he’d wanted this. Driving down a dark highway, from nowhere to nowhere, he’d looked across at the curve of his brother’s lips and silently burned for this. He was burning now, hands reaching for Sam’s shoulders, hauling him closer.

  Sam broke away with a huff of laughter. “I’ll go get us a room.”

 “What, my car not good enough for you?”

  Sam paused, one foot out the passenger door, and when he spoke again his voice was rougher. “There’s something I… me on the hood, spread under your hands.”

  “Fuck. Sam. Yes.” Dean abruptly couldn’t breathe.

  Sam’s smile curled, pleased and predatory. “But not in a public lot in daylight. Besides, I want space to take you apart.”

Then he was gone, striding over to the reception, and how he could walk when Dean’s erection was going to cause issues just standing up was a minor miracle. With an effort, he hauled himself out of the driver’s seat and retrieved their duffel bags. Sam came back with the key and they let themselves into the room.

It looked strange and it took Dean a few seconds to work out why. Wacky decor aside, he was used to motel rooms containing two beds. Not one, centre stage, dominating the space. Dean swallowed and dropped the bags on the desk. Sam hesitated in the doorway and Dean’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Second thoughts?” he asked quietly.

  “No.” Sam ran a hand through his mop of hair. “Just… I never thought I’d get this, y’know? It’s a lot to process.”

Sam was nervous and, easy as that, Dean was back on solid ground. His little brother needed him to show that everything was okay. He sat on the end of the bed and unlaced his boots.

  “Close the door, Francis, you’re letting all the hot air out.”

  “That’s okay, you’ve got plenty more.”

Dean could hear Sam making an effort at lightness, but the door shut.  The bed dipped as Sam sat next to him and bent over his shoes. Dean wrapped a gentle hand around his brother’s nape and rubbed his thumb over the artery.

  “Giraffe neck,” he murmured.

He bent to kiss it, grazing his teeth across the skin. Sam inhaled sharply, shivering. Dean ran his palm down the long length of spine, dipping his middle finger under the waistband of Sam’s jeans to lightly caress the top of his crack. The muscles there quivered and Dean’s cock jerked in response.

  “Christ, you’re beautiful,” he said.

  Sam gave a snort of unsteady laughter. “I’m not a girl, Dean.”

  “Never had a girl as gorgeous as you, God’s honest truth.”

  In a smooth move, Sam turned and flung one leg over to straddle his brother. He pushed Dean’s shoulders back against the sheets and leaned over him. “Not that you’re biased.”

  “Don’t mean I’m blind.” Dean ran his hands up the firm smoothness of Sam’s biceps, fingers digging in.

  Sam lowered himself to rest his forehead against Dean’s. “What did I do to deserve you?” he murmured.

  “Serial killer in a past life? Or, heh, maybe a realtor?”

  “Don’t.” Sam framed his face with both hands and locked gazes, his expression serious. “Don’t do that. Run yourself down all the time. You have no idea, do you? None. All my life, I’ve compared everyone I meet to you and they all fall short.”

  “Thought you were smart.”

  “Dean.” Sam’s voice was vulnerable, in pain, and that banished Dean’s levity. He swallowed, barely able to breathe, as Sam brushed a feather-light kiss across his mouth. “I love you so much. Sometimes it feels like it’s killing me. You’re everything good in my world, and you don’t get to make fun of that. Understand? You don’t get to abuse the person I love most.”

Dean drew in a breath to give some flippant reply and his chest cracked open. Oh god, it hurt, he hadn’t realised how much it hurt to let yourself be loved. It was the fissure of tectonic plates shuddering through his bones. He closed his eyes against the butterfly-pin of Sam’s gaze, and instead became aware of his brother’s weight bleeding fire into his body. He was burning up, agony and rapture, and he couldn’t move a muscle. Not even to stop salt water welling up under his eyelids.

  Then Sam was kissing his eyes tenderly, his brow, his mouth, and the kisses were brands. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Let me.”

Fingers tugged his shirt up. Sam’s tongue ran over his nipple, sending a bullet of heat straight through his ribcage. One hand involuntarily grabbed the back of Sam’s head, fingers curling into that long hair. Sam shifted backwards, rubbing against his groin, and the heat spread like wildfire. He was paralysed, yearningly restless in his own skin and held down by the weight of lust in his bones. Sam shifted again and he moaned, the sound tearing out of him.

  “Let me,” Sam insisted.

Dean didn’t think he could stop him. In fact, he wasn’t all that sure he could’ve moved if a rugaru had smashed through the door. When Sam’s hands fumbled at his belt, he couldn’t even muster the strength to inhale. This was so different from before, so much more intense, because it was for real, forever. It wasn’t Dean corrupting his little brother, abusing the weirdness of their lives. It was Sam _choosing_ him, eyes open and thinking ahead. The enormity of that was as heavy as gravity.

  “Love you, Sammy,” he whispered brokenly.

  “I know.”

Sam’s long fingers and wide palms were everywhere, trailing over his thighs, his chest, building a web of tension that strummed through his skin, holding him down, stretching him out, taking the pain from the crack and transmuting it into need, anticipation, sharp-edged pleasure. When Sam pushed his wrists down hard into the mattress with a sharp _‘stay’_ , a ripple of lust through that web pulled the groan from deep inside him. He didn’t need to be restrained. Sammy wanted him to stay still, so he would. He always gave Sammy what he wanted.

If only he’d known earlier that this - that _he_ \- was what Sammy wanted most. If it weren’t for the whole ‘watching his brother die repeatedly’ thing, he could almost be grateful to the Trickster. Almost.

Then Sam’s weight shifted and coherent thought of any kind vanished as he positioned Dean’s cock against his hole and sank down. Dean’s eyes slammed open, the breath punched out of him. Hot, slick, oh god, so tight, and Sam kept on sinking and sinking until their hips were flush and Dean was in to the root, vision pulsing. He tried to inhale but it sounded like a strangled moan. Dazed, he focused on Sam.

His brother was sitting upright, spine arched and hair thrown back. His eyes were closed and his lips parted in an expression of ecstasy. One hand was braced against Dean’s thighs and the other was wrapped around his own impressive erection. It was the most erotic, beautiful thing Dean had ever seen. The muscles in Sam’s thighs bunched and shifted, pushing him smoothly up along Dean’s shaft. Dean’s hips thrust upwards in pursuit of that glorious enveloping heat, and Sam dropped down to meet them.

  “Fuck!” Dean cried out.

  Sam opened his eyes, instantly worried. “Dean? You okay?”

  “Christ, do that again and this is gonna be the shortest ride I ever gave.”

  “Good.” Sam’s voice dropped to a treacle-dark growl. “I want to be all your evers. We can start with that one.”

He leaned forwards, bracing his forearms on either side of Dean’s head, and did it again. Dean’s hands moved of their own volition, clutching at Sam’s hips and pulling him down hard. The shock of impact ran through Dean’s body like a live current, whiting out every sense. Sam thrust again; another jolt. His nerves were overloading with sensation. His muscles bunched, wanting to roll over and pin Sam, move over and into him, but Sam had told him to stay. So he lay stretched out in his back whilst Sam rocked down again and again, thrusting him deeper, until all he could see was lightning, and the sound of his voice screaming Sam’s name was a distant thunderclap as he poured himself into his brother.

He drifted for a while afterwards, only tugged back towards lucidity by the touch of a warm cloth.

  “I gotta look after you,” he insisted muzzily, eyes still closed and limbs still heavy. “‘S my job.”

  “Next time. Go to sleep.”

  “Sammy...”

  “I’m here.” The mattress dipped and a long arm slid around his waist. “Go to sleep, Dean.”

Sam was here; Sam was safe; Sam loved him. Dean sighed, needing to vent a little happiness before he burst, and floated away.

\----

  He was woken by a kiss, soft as a breeze, on his temple. The world was warm, and dark, and filled with the smell of Sam.

  “’S not gettin’ up time,” he objected muzzily, burrowing backwards into the reassuring solidity of his brother’s body.

  A hand stroked through his hair, soothing. “No.”

He growled, pleased, and sank back into sleep.

The second time, he woke with a start, heart racing at the wrongness. There was no familiar music, the wallpaper was different, and Sam was… Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed, tying the laces of his running shoes. Dean swallowed against his hammering pulse.

  “What day is it?”

  “Wednesday.” Sam straightened up at Dean’s inarticulate noise, and put a steadying hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Hey, man. It’s okay. We ganked the bastard, remember? It’s over.”

Dean shook his head, throat tight, and pulled Sam roughly into a bone-crushing hug. Sam gave an ‘ooph’ and stroked down the length of Dean’s spine.

  “How many Tuesdays did you have?”

  “Enough.” Dean pulled back and cleared his throat. Then his eyes narrowed as he took in Sam’s shorts and sports top. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Going for a run.”

  “This obsession of yours with exercise is downright unhealthy.”

  “Means I can run away from the monsters faster than you.”

  “Dude, we’re supposed to stab, not skedaddle.”

  “Oh, so that wasn’t you I saw high-tailing it with a gryphon behind you last month?”

  “Shut up.”

  Sam laughed, then leaned over the bed and kissed him open-mouthed.

  “Morning breath, man!” Dean objected.

  Sam straightened up, grinning. “Back in thirty minutes. And then, I was thinking… shower?”

  The memory of Sam’s head thrown back against the tiles, the taste of his water-slick skin, slammed into Dean’s groin. “Make it ten.”

  Sam licked his lips, staring at the hickey on Dean’s neck. “Yeah.” He didn’t move.

  “Go on, get.”

Dean shoved him off the mattress. Sam staggered, almost falling, and for a moment Dean had a vision of him falling into the desk again. Then he recovered his balance and stood up with a swipe at Dean’s head.

_Wednesday. It’s Wednesday._

  “Jerk.”

  “Bitch.”

Sam pushed his hair back and strode over to the door. Dean rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of sweats and headed towards the bathroom.

The sound of a shot turned his blood to ice. It could have been a car backfiring in the lot… but he knew it wasn’t. He was outside before he’d even thought about moving. A kid in a black hoodie was running away, something silver flashing in his hand. There was no one else in view.

Then Dean saw a foot in a jogging shoe almost hidden behind the Impala. For a long second he couldn’t move. His feet were rooted to the ground, blood cold and sluggish in his limbs. When he did force them forwards, they felt a million miles away. Three steps, three million miles, to round the car and see.

Sam lay crumpled on the tarmac, eyes open wide and mouth gasping. A black hole spread swiftly across his chest. Dean fell to his knees and gathered his brother into his lap.

  “Sam. Hey, hey, look at me.” Sam’s eyes slid to his, vulnerable and scared. Dean swallowed against his panic. “It’s not even that bad. It’s not even that bad, all right? Sammy? Sam! Listen to me, we’re gonna patch you up, okay? You’ll be good as new. I’m gonna take care of you. I’ve got you.”

Sam blinked, jaw working, and then stilled. Dean couldn’t breathe. Everything felt unreal, distant, fuzzy.

  “Sam? Sammy! No. No, no, no, no. Oh god. Oh god.” He raised a hand, staring at the redness coating it in shock. “Not today. Not today.”

The crack in his chest was bleeding out onto the tarmac, taking all the warmth and light with it. His world was lying heavy across his thighs, broken and empty. He couldn’t… he couldn’t… How was he supposed to live with that?

  “What am I supposed to do, Sammy?” he whispered. There was water sliding down his face. The dam was breaking. “What am I supposed to do?”

He could still smell Sam on his skin, still feel the pressure of those long fingers sliding over his hip. It was too much. He staggered upright, away from his brother’s body. His lover’s body.

There was a crack in his chest, and it hurt to be loved, and he couldn’t unlearn that. Wouldn’t live without it. 

  “What am I supposed to do?!”

Ten minutes later he was in the Impala, knuckles clenched around her wheel, driving hell-for-leather towards the nearest crossroads. Doing what he was designed for. Taking care of Sam.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, I'm constitutionally incapable of writing happy endings. It's Greek Tragedy or nothing.
> 
> Please consider leaving kudos. It makes writers happy. :-)


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